Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 40951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 40951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
When we’re done, he frowns.
“Bad news?” I ask, heart wobbling.
“Sheriff called earlier,” he says. “They’re having trouble with the main pass. Plows are working double, but ridge roads are lower priority.” His eyes meet mine. “We’re probably stuck up here another day. Maybe two.”
“Oh.” I try to sound casual, but my voice does a little slide on the way out. “So… more storm mode.”
“More storm mode,” he confirms.
I’m not sure how I feel about that.
On one hand: my job, my boss, my deadlines, my life in Saint Pierce. The longer I stay, the more Margo’s emails are going to sound like sirens.
On the other hand: this cabin. This quiet. This man in flannel who chops wood and feeds horses and looks at storms like old rivals and makes biscuits that ruin my life.
I should be panicking. Instead, my stomach does a slow, traitorous flip.
“Guess I’ll have plenty of time to edit,” I say lightly. “And…film more content.”
He nods. “Sponsor’ll get their bells.” And then, more quietly: “You okay with staying?”
The fact that he asks floors me. Like it actually matters to him how I feel about being trapped on his mountain. Like I’m not just some chaos elf who broke his sleigh and invaded his cabin.
“Yeah,” I say, surprising both of us. “As long as I’m not driving you crazy.”
His mouth does that almost-smile thing again. “The jury’s still out.”
Warmth curls low in my belly.
We head inside as the sky turns soft and pink at the edges. The day settles into a slow, easy rhythm. I upload footage and rough together a teaser cut while he checks the fence line and brushes the horses. When he steps out, the cabin feels too big. When he comes back in, it feels exactly right.
By dinner, the world is blue twilight and chimney smoke. Another small snow storm rolls in, quieter than the one before.
We eat at the small table—simple food that tastes better than it has any right to. Pan-seared something, vegetables, leftover biscuits warmed on the stove. It’s quiet but not empty. Comfortable. The kind of silence that feels like a blanket, not a wall.
After, we migrate to the couch.
It’s the same couch he slept on last night, but now there’s a firelight glow and a hand-knit quilt and two mugs of tea standing guard on the low table. I tuck my legs under me at one end. He sits at the other, one arm draped along the back, legs crossed at the ankle.
The space between us feels charged and calm at the same time.
“Tell me about Saint Pierce,” he says suddenly.
I blink. “What do you want to know?”
“What makes you stay there?”
The question lands deeper than I expect. “My job. My friends. The coffee shop that knows my order without judgment.” I shrug. “I like that it’s busy, but not…too big. And it’s close enough that I can come up to places like this when I need room to breathe.”
He nods like that makes sense. “You’re good at what you do.”
It’s not a question.
“I try,” I say. “It’s like… taking all the parts of a story that people skip over and making them shine. The quiet hands. The little rituals. The way someone checks a strap twice instead of once.” I glance at him. “You’re very good content, by the way.”
He huffs out a breath. “Glad my neuroses are marketable.”
“Extremely.” I smile, shifting slightly toward him. “What about you? Why are you living on a mountain top secluded from the world?”
Silence stretches. It’s not awkward.
He stares into the fire for a long moment. His jaw works, like he’s chewing on something invisible. “I don’t talk about it much,” he says finally. “Iraq.”
The air shifts.
I straighten, tucking my hands under my thighs so I won’t reach for him too fast. “You don’t have to.”
“I know.” His gaze stays on the flames, the light painting the planes of his face in gold and shadow. “Most people want the movie version. Clean lines. Good guys, bad guys. ‘Thank you for your service’ and then change the subject.”
I swallow. “I don’t need the movie version.”
He nods once. The wood pops softly.
“We were out on a routine escort,” he starts, voice low and steady in that way that makes my chest ache. “Nothing flashy. Nothing that should’ve gone sideways. I was driving second vehicle. Sun was…too bright. Heat coming off the road like you could fall into it.”
He pauses. I don’t rush him.
“We missed the signs,” he says. “That’s the part that sticks.” His fingers curl, like they’re remembering the feel of a steering wheel. “The kids who weren’t on the street. The shutter that closed too fast. We rolled right into it like a gift.”
My throat goes tight.
“The blast took the lead truck,” he continues. “Man in front—my friend—was gone before I could even process the sound. After that it was noise. Dust. Smoke. Training.” He exhales through his nose. “You move. You do what you’re supposed to. And then later, when it’s quiet, you’ve got this loop in your head. All the ways you should’ve seen it coming.”